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mean when they had been built and were designed for small and occasional trade, but since the days of victory, when a million demobilized men had passed through the terminus, each one armed with a parcel of Government-presented garments of varying usefulness, half the establishments had been taken over by opportunists specializing in the purchase and sale of secondhand clothes. Every other window was darkened with festoons of semi-respectable rags based by bundles of grey household linen, soiled suitcases, and an occasional collection of surplus war stores, green, khaki, and air-force blue. The fine new police station on the corner was the chief ornament to the district, and the D.D.C.I. advanced upon it with the tread of a proprietor. The impatient traffic was moving a little and they were held up for a moment or so on a street island. As they waited, Mr Campion reflected that the evil smell of fog is a smell of ashes grown cold under hoses, and he heard afresh the distinctive noise of the irritable, half-blinded city, the scream of brakes, the abuse of drivers, the fierce hiss of tyres on the wet road.
    Just above it, like an appropriate theme-song, sounded the thumping of the street band. There was nothing of the dispirited drone there. It triumphed in the thick air, an almighty affront of a noise, importunate and vigorous.
    The knot of men who were playing were half in the gutter and half on the pavement. They were moving along steadily, as the law insists, and the rattle of their collecting boxes was as noisy as their tune. They were some little way away and it was not possible to distinguish individuals, but there was a ruthless urgency in their movements and the stream of foot passengers narrowed as it flowed past the bunch. Luke jerked his chin towards them.
    â€˜See that? Demanding with menaces. What else is it? Gimme, gimme!’ He thrust a long curved hand under Campion’s nose and achieved an expression of rapacity which was startling. ‘We can’t touch ’em. Keep moving, that’s all we can say. If a cat made a row like that we’d kill it.’
    Campion laughed. He liked Luke.
    â€˜I remember after the First World War those bands were pretty shocking,’ he remarked, ‘but I thought the Welfare State had rather seen to that sort of thing. They are ex-Service, I suppose?’
    â€˜Who isn’t?’ Luke was irritable. ‘I bet you every man under sixty in this street is ex-Service, and half the women too. That little band of brothers is only ex-Service among other things. Haven’t you seen them about? They tramp all over the town, West End mostly. Nothing’s known against any of ’em, as we say, but they’re not exactly pretty to look at.’
    He drew a balloon shape in the air with his hands and screwed his eyes up to beady pinpoints.
    â€˜They all wear tickets round their necks. One says “No Pension”. Nor have I, of course. Then there’s “Invalid” and “One Arm”, Poor bloke – but he can get a new one from the old National Health free. Where is it? “No Head” would make you look quicker. Not one says “Unemployed”, I notice. That
would
be asking for it. They’re only beggars. Every big city produces ’em. They’ve got a fine old ex-Service song there, anyway. Remember it?’
    â€˜I’ve been trying to. Was it called “Waiting”?’
    Luke stood listening, an odd expression on his face. The band was moving very slowly.
    â€˜â€œI’ll be
wai
-tin’ for you!”’ he bellowed suddenly just under his breath. ‘“
At
the old oak tree-ah! I’ll be
wai
-tin’ for you. Just you wait for me-ah! Turn up your lips, waggle your hips, and we’ll all be set for chapel. So softly we’ll glide, where water-weeds hide, and willows make little waves dapple.” Most poetic, I don’t think, but those aren’t the words those